A Party Scene
by cafe4deux
Summary: Dorothy interlopes upon the Gundam Pilots' celebrations to comic effect. Re-posted for your enjoyment.


Party Scene  
  
As Duo Maxwell attempted to doff the last gulp of a frosty root beer, he felt the urge to reintroduce the drink onto the kitchen counter's surface. Sitting across from him, Hilde perceived the strain of his eyes as he fought back the impulse.  
"Who invited her?" he sputtered.  
  
Eyes darted to the door.  
  
The woman in question stepped decorously into the brightly light room, cutting a swath into the atmosphere of jollity and the digital cheer of a hidden sound system - the latest in nouveau-retro-electronica. She peered in her impassive way from beneath the gray, angular contraptions that resembled eyebrows. She tossed limp fronds of blonde hair from her sight, gripped her diminutive purse before the black folds of a velveteen cocktail dress. If it had been anyone else... absolutely anyone... even the bloated corpse of Treize Kushranada, then perhaps the garb would have infused a bit more sex appeal to the evening. By all accounts, what allure there had been dove through the open windows.  
  
And Dorothy Catalonia arrived.  
  
"Good evening," said Dorothy.  
  
The year is After Colony 196 and the celebration of a final, lasting peace on New Year's Eve bubbles fiercely even within the numbed cockles of Heero's heart. However, there was a single stipulation of which he advised Relena at the moment she suggested a private party at Quatre's family mansion.  
  
"Don't bother sending invitations to WuFei or Dorothy Catalonia."  
  
"But why not, Heero? Shouldn't we honor WuFei just as well as the rest of you?"  
  
"Sure. Just take out an ad on the internet. He'll see it."  
  
"But what about Dorothy?" she gave the final "o" it's full due.  
  
"She'll show up. She's always skulking around. She's been stalking you for quite a while."  
  
Heero's honesty left a reddish patch of embarrassment to dapple Relena's cheeks.  
  
And so she had indeed come... and WuFei was yet to be seen, as sure as if Wing Zero had forecast it and the new dimension she added to the party crashed on all their heads.  
  
When Quatre looked up from the lyrics he was writing and the tawny arms of the Arab princess he was courting, he simply smiled. Or he smiled like a crackpot. It was hard to be certain sometimes that Quatre's ultra sincere, ultra sensitive aspect wasn't the result of substance abuse. Smiles of this magnitude supported the case.  
  
Trowa considered the uninvited guest impassively, if only for a moment and then cocked his head towards Catherine again, seated cross-legged at his left on the plush divan. Catherine was actually silent. She regarded Dorothy with the sharp skepticism of a den mother; scowl bared, eyes aflare, wine-colored hair curling in fervor. Her protective arms swept around a surprised Trowa and he would have given forth a yelp, except that he'd long ago forgotten how to express surprise, or fear, or disappointment, or sadness, or...  
  
Duo was off of his barstool, before Hilde could protest.  
  
"What's the big idea barging in here? This is a private party, missy!"  
  
"But you seemed to be having such fun as I was watching from outside that I simply had to present myself," Dorothy said, with perfect candor, her voice rising and failing like an aroma on the wind.  
  
"You were watching!" Duo rumbled.  
  
"Oh...," Dorothy dipped into her tiny, crushed velvet purse to produce a pair of gold-plated opera glasses as one might use to peer at the epiglottises of crooning Siegfrieds. "Why yes and you are a wonderful dancer, Duo Maxwell."  
  
Duo's anger boiled. Hilde placed a reassuring hand at his back.  
  
"Give her something she'll nurse for a month, Duo!" Catherine called, still holding Trowa. He looked positively frantic.  
  
Just then - a door of an adjoining hall, just beyond the threshold of the room, opened slightly to admit a soft light that hovered about the head and naked shoulder of Heero Yuy.  
  
"What's the noise just now?" he asked but had his answer upon seeing Duo's stance and the blonde interloper before him. Both of them gazed down the hall at Heero now, Dorothy smirking very quietly and cooing even more quietly at the small portion of Heero's Adonis-like torso. She smirked again when a giggly Relena appeared just to the right of Heero's face. She decided to make a bit of a spectacle and turned on her heels to face the couple wedged in the door.  
  
"Miss Relena," she spoke only a bit louder than was cordial, feigning surprise. "You're here too? What a pleasure!"  
  
"Don't you turn away from me!" Duo was still railing.  
  
Relena's face vanished, amidst a gasp. Heero looked calmly defiant; that is to say that his face conveyed the same look it normally does.  
  
"I certainly don't mean to interrupt," Dorothy allowed the words to hang for a moment, infecting the air with her filthy suspicions. "But I was hoping to speak to you."  
  
"Can't it wait, Dorothy?"  
  
"Yeah. You are interrupting," Duo chimed.  
  
But Dorothy continued to approach the place where Heero stood.  
  
"What do you want?" he asked, arresting her motion.  
  
"I only wanted to congratulate you, you and your friends for fighting the most beautiful battle that history will ever record - the final battle to ensure peace to all humanity. How magnificent. As a true warrior, you must be filled with satisfaction."  
  
Duo groaned audibly and retreated towards his unfinished root beer in a huff, ponytail swishing, fists clinched.  
  
"I don't have time for your platitudes, Dorothy Catalonia." Heero began to close the door.  
  
"Surely, of all people, you must sense a need to contemplate this event."  
  
"You should go find Zechs. He's the one that should contemplate."  
  
Dorothy's eyes sharpened.  
  
"Oh but I couldn't."  
  
"Give it a try," Heero glanced into the room a moment.  
  
"I have already. Mr. Milliardo and Miss Noin are nowhere to be found."  
  
"Don't bother to explain why that's my problem." The door shut.  
  
It will become quite clear to all of you why...very soon, Dorothy thought for no real reason aside from that fact that she had so long been a party to conspiracies. She was counter-suggestible, by way of her own low, murmuring voice and its cryptic responses to others no matter the conversation. Even in times when she thought herself to be entirely trustworthy - like when she once promised her mother that she wouldn't steal cookies from the cookie jar or when she was accidentally given too much change at the La Grange Point deli. That devilishly seductive voice persisted in contorting her thoughts, persuading her to fantasize about how many cookies she could eat to ruin her mother's chances at the bake sale or how much money she could swindle the cashier out of with a flick of the lashes. And it all felt so delicious, so enthralling, so... funny.  
  
"You still here?" she heard Duo's voice boom somewhere between the pulses of music.  
  
Dorothy moved back into the living room, surveyed again the party guests and they her. She stepped to the open door, Duo, a fresh mug of root beer and Hilde ready to slam it on her. She looked at him silently, with a phony knowing glance. He cleared his throat and nodded to Hilde's open hand.  
  
At first, she wondered if they wanted a tip.  
  
"They were given to me by my dear grandfather," she sheepishly spied the opera glasses in her hand. "You wouldn't..."  
  
"Ahem!" Duo pronounced and for some outlandish reason, Dorothy considered that anyone who wears a roman collar but is not ordained would probably have little compunction about giving a good hard shove to a lady. Then she considered that she may not appear to be a lady, exactly - aside from the elegant dress and the soft speech and the flowing blonde locks.  
  
Hilde claimed the glasses brusquely.  
  
"I would thank you for your hospitality, however..." Dorothy began.  
  
"And I won't let you," Duo snapped. "Get goin'."  
  
And Dorothy Catalonia departed, the door locked behind her.  
  
"Alright!" Duo exclaimed, after a cold pull of the root beer. "Who's up for an arm wrestle? The God of Death is feeling limber!" 


End file.
